


Better Than the Beanie

by sebacielfantasies



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Oops, Post-Canon, SaruMi - Freeform, also just a pinch of angst, and thought he could use some new headwear, just a pinch, legit made this bc I don't like yata's beanie, overwhelming fluff, you'll probs need a toothbrush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:07:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebacielfantasies/pseuds/sebacielfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Misaki comes home to their apartment, he's not wearing his usual black beanie.</p><p>Or, 5 times Misaki wears something other than his beanie in front of Saru.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than the Beanie

**Author's Note:**

> So I may or may not have written this simply because I don't like Misaki's beanie, oops. And I know he doesn't wear just that one beanie; he has that other hat from season 2 also, but he still wears the beanie most of the time and I just can't.  
> Well I mean, maybe I just don't like beanies in general? I'm a weird person, so, that's probably it.
> 
> But yeah. I'm giving Misaki some new head wear.
> 
> This takes place after they make up, by the way. Hope you enjoy!

_i._

In a tinkling of bells, Saruhiko enters the bar.

Stepping over the threshold, though, he feels his heart stop, stall, stutter—and then the urge to turn tail and stride right out of there rises up, strong enough to make his toes curl.

HOMRA's bar hasn't changed much. There's more people, lots more—the only ones he even recognizes are Kusanagi, Kamamoto, Anna, and maybe Bandou—but the rowdiness that clings to the group like a leech is as alive as ever.

And today, it's even rowdier, because if Saruhiko learned anything during his limited time in HOMRA years ago, it's that when they celebrate something, they celebrate like there's no tomorrow.

But Saruhiko doesn't do rowdy, doesn't do celebrations, doesn't do socializing in general, and maybe leaving's not that bad of an idea after all.

"Saruhiko!"

Only now Misaki's noticed his entrance, so there's no turning back.

Misaki fights his way through the mass of previous clansmen ("But we're still HOMRA," Misaki once said to him, "and losing our powers ain't gonna change that.") and Saruhiko clicks his tongue, turns his head to avoid the grin he knows is on Misaki's face.

"You're late!" exclaims Misaki, once he reaches Saruhiko's side. The red birthday hat wobbles on his head as he leans over to punch Saruhiko's shoulder, teasingly. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere in particular. Nice hat, Mi-sa-kiii."

Misaki's ears pink as Saruhiko flicks a finger at the paper party hat. "Shaddup—no one asked you, idiot Monkey—"

Saruhiko doesn't try to hide his growing smirk. "Looks better than that hideous beanie."

"Oi, what the hell is wrong with my beanie?" Misaki's always been easy to rile up, even over something as petty as his fashion sense, and Saruhiko will never not enjoy it. "Actually, you know what, this is stupid. Just—Just c'mon already, will you?"

When Misaki latches a hand around his wrist, drags him towards the bar stools, Saruhiko has no choice but to follow. His eyes don't leave the fingers wrapped tightly around his skin.

As soon as he sinks into the seat, Misaki's shoving a plate under his nose, "You like cake, right?" and sliding him a drink down the counter.

Saruhiko stares down at the abundance of red frosting, oozing onto his plate like blood. ". . . Thanks," he finally says. "Looks . . . edible."

He's taken one bite (very, very sweet, he concludes, but not terrible) when Kamamoto staggers over, and Saruhiko wonders why the cake on his tongue is suddenly tasting bitter.

"Hey, Yata-san!"

One side of Misaki's lips tips up, and he swivels in his seat to face the other man. He laughs. "Damn, how many drinks did ya have, Kamamoto?"

Kamamoto laughs too, slurs, "Justa couple, nuthin' I can't handle," and he rambles on some more but Saruhiko's stopped listening. He stares down at his fork and feels himself fading into the background, the longer and longer they talk.

And now that Misaki's stopped distracting him, he feels his surroundings flood back into focus, too—the music that he'd been tuning out blares too loudly in his eardrums, and he can feel the blurred mob of clansmen all around him, red red red.

He's itching his mark and itching to leave, because why he's even here—at this place he hates, this place he doesn't belong in—he doesn't know.

The reason why he's here comes in the form of a hand reaching for his under the counter, calloused and warm. Startled, Saruhiko whips his head around to look at the culprit.

Misaki won't meet his eyes. "You alright?"

Eyes wide, Saruhiko forces his gaze to his drink, and now neither of them are looking at each other. After thinking for a moment, his mind comes up blank, which isn't unexpected. It's hard to get used to—switching from rivals to friends, hate to whatever-they-have. He isn't sure what to think of it, really.

"Happy Birthday, Misaki," he says instead, because it's easier than answering.

 

_ii._

When Misaki comes home to their apartment (yes, they're trying that again), he's not wearing his usual black beanie.

"Misaki," says Saruhiko, slowly, sitting up on the futon with a bemused expression on his face. "What is that?"

The door shuts behind him with more force than necessary, and the tips of Misaki's ears redden. "Anna made me wear it," he mutters. "I had no choice."

"Huh."

Saruhiko just continues to stare, because Misaki is wearing a _flower crown_ and he can already feel his mouth twitching. An assortment of red flowers decorate his tufts of chestnut hair along with leaves and other greenery, and a thin circle of green wire holds it all together.

"Huh," Saruhiko says again. ". . . cute."

He doesn't mean to say this, doesn't mean to say it at all, but his mouth betrays him. Misaki gapes at him, eyes going wide, and Saruhiko struggles to cover up his slip-up before his dignity is lost completely.

"Cute in a girly way, that is," he says, and it isn't perfect but at least Misaki's not gaping at him like he's grown two heads anymore. He smirks. "Trying to live up to your name, eh, Mi-sa-kiii?"

"Fuck you," is the response he receives, as expected. "I wasn't gonna be an asshole and refuse it after Anna spent so long making the stupid thing!"

"Oh, is that right?" Saruhiko raises an eyebrow. "Tell me, Misaki. If you're wearing it for Anna, then why do you still have it on?"

The not-so-innocent question hangs in the air between them, hangs between Saruhiko's victorious grin and Misaki's steadily growing mortification. Then, with cheeks as red as the flowers in his hair, Misaki stutters out, "T-t-that's not—"

Saruhiko can't help it—he laughs. He throws his head back and _laughs_ , laughs until his chest hurts, laughs until his throat aches. But that's okay with him, really, because he can't even remember the last time he felt this light.

"Damn Monkey—" Misaki's up in his face, red faced and fists clenched. But his eyes, Saruhiko notices, are smiling. "It's not funny! Stop laughing already!"

"But it is," he argues, but Misaki's having none of it. He rips the flower crown off—still making sure to keep it intact—and pushes it on Saruhiko's head.

"There!" he says, proudly, with a shitty lopsided smirk. "Now you can look stupid too, 'cause it's only fair."

"Eh?" Saruhiko rubs his finger against one of the flower's petals, smearing pollen on his skin. "Not happening." Then he takes it off his head.

Misaki huffs, "Just wait. I'll get it on you somehow, I swear it—and I know I've got a camera around here somewhere, so I'll get you good—"

"Sure you will," he drawls. The limp crown dangles between his fingertips, sways as he slouches onto the couch. "Good luck with that."

The shorter man glares, and Saruhiko glares back. Finally Misaki says, "Whatever, I'm gonna go make dinner. It shouldn't take too long."

Saruhiko nods, and Misaki leaves for the kitchen.

It's only when he hears the clanking of pans and the stove sizzling in the other room that Saruhiko looks again at the flower crown, at the petals smushed between his fingertips.

No one sees him take a flower off the crown (the same shade as Misaki's hair, his mind supplies unhelpfully) and tuck it into his pocket.

 

_iii._

"Rice."

"Check."

"Vitamins."

"Check."

"Beer."

"Check."

"Condoms."

"Chec—Wait, _what?!_ Saru, I didn't write that—"

"Ah, of course you didn't, sorry. You won't be needing those anytime soon anyway. My bad. How about shampoo?"

 _"Saru!"_ hisses Misaki, and the looks he receives from several nearby shoppers are beyond amusing. Catching the looks, Misaki glares right back, then mutters, "What did you say was next?"

Saruhiko looks down at the grocery list, written in Misaki's messy scrawl. "Shampoo."

Misaki scans their shopping cart, eyes flicking through the foods. "Shit. Uncheck."

He starts to turn the cart around—they saw hair products in aisle seven, which was somewhere behind them—and Saruhiko sighs.

"I don't see why I had to come with you to do this."

"Quit complaining already," says Misaki. The wheels on the cart squeak as he rolls it forward. "It's not like you were doing anything useful at home, anyway."

He raises an eyebrow. "You just wanted the company, didn't you."

"Your shitty company? Of course not!"

"Liar," says Saruhiko, and Misaki doesn't reply, just elbows him hard in the side and continues down the store.

They find the hair products aisle, throw the cheapest bottle of shampoo they can find in the cart, and check the list to see what they're missing (Saruhiko, apparently, had skipped over every vegetable on the list) before heading off to the next aisle.

Saruhiko stops, however, when something pink flashes in the corner of his eye.

"Hey, Misaki." He tosses an impassive glance over his shoulder, "I found something you might like. Look."

"What?" In a moment, Misaki's beside him, following Saruhiko's line of sight—and then he scowls, and Saruhiko can just _see _the irritation rolling off him.__

"Saruhiko. Why the fuck would I want a _woman's _shower cap?"__

"Don't be like that," Saruhiko's enjoying this far too much, he thinks, as he grabs the shower cap off the rack. It's bright pink, sprinkled with little black polka dots, and poofier than cotton candy.

Before Misaki can move a finger, Saruhiko has taken his beanie off and thrown it in the cart, in exchange for the cap. But as his hands brush Misaki's hair to put the cap on, it's hard to ignore how soft his hair is, or how small the space is between them.

When he pulls away, he swears his heart is beating a little faster.

"There," he says, and if his voice isn't as composed as usual Misaki doesn't notice. He looks in the aisle for a handheld mirror, finds one, and hands it to the other. "See for yourself."

"S-See for—No way, you damn Monkey!" Misaki, blushing madly, rips off the cap. But perhaps he takes it off a bit _too_ violently, because the next thing they know, there's a torn-in-two cap fisted in Misaki's hands.

"Fuck—um—" Misaki's eyes fall to the cap, one half of it in each hand. He frowns, then glances back to the rack. "Let's just put it back and—"

"Idiot, have you forgotten what clan I was a part of? I'm not some hoodlum, unlike you. Just put it in the cart, I'll buy it."

"Ripping a cheap shower cap and then not paying for it doesn't make you a hoodlum, Monkey! We're not buying it!"

"Honestly," sighs Saruhiko, but he's more amused than exasperated, "it's not like you have to wear it. You ruined it already."

"Oh." It seems like Misaki didn't realize this until now, and at the reminder he relaxes. "Hmph, fine then. But we're throwing it out the second we get outta here."

Saruhiko nods, not really caring either way, and turns back to the cart.

"Sucks for you though, doesn't it?" Misaki laughs. "I totally ruined your fun by ruining the cap, yeah? Serves you right."

" . . . Not all my fun," he says, under his breath, and he feels his pocket for his PDA. His PDA that may or may not have a picture Misaki doesn't even realize he took. "Not all of it."

 

_iv._

The digital clock on his PDA reads _2:00 AM_ in big red letters when Misaki slips inside their apartment.

Saruhiko, who'd been wide awake in the living room for what felt like an eternity, sits up on the futon and feels the relief suffocate him, wrap around his chest and choke the breath out of his throat.

Misaki isn't looking at him. Or maybe he is. Saruhiko can't tell in this darkness. "Hey," he says, almost inaudible. Saruhiko catches the one word like a lifeline, a reassurance: _He's okay he's okay he's okay._

". . . You're late," is all Saruhiko says, quietly. He doesn't trust himself to speak anymore than that.

Misaki gazes through their window, eyes luminous in the light of the moon, and breathes out a laugh. "Yeah, sorry about that. You didn't have to stay up and wait for me, y'know."

When Misaki leaves for the bathroom, Saruhiko follows. And the moment he switches on the light and the dingy little bulb flickers to life, Saruhiko sees what he couldn't in the darkness.

There's bandages wrapped around Misaki's head.

The dim lighting makes it look worse, somehow, as Saruhiko stares. There's patches of dark spots on the yellow-looking bandages and he can't decide if they're shadows or blood.

Saruhiko's fingers twitch, and then he's acutely aware of the knife he keeps in his sleeve every night, just in case. "What happened."

". . . itches so fucking bad," Misaki was saying, but at hearing Saruhiko's tone, he instantly goes quiet. His fingers crook into fists at his sides, and he meets Saruhiko's eyes in the mirror. "A gang we fought a while back—bastards still had a bone to pick with HOMRA."

Saruhiko takes a step into the bathroom. "You fought them without calling for backup," he states.

"Well, yeah, but—"

Another step. "Even though you're perfectly aware that the Slates were destroyed, and you don't have powers anymore."

Misaki's jaw tightens. "I know, but I really thought I could—"

Step. He's standing directly behind Misaki now, with his eyes still caught on the other's reflection. "And then you got yourself injured, and you forgot to call and tell me. Is that it?"

Misaki's watching Saruhiko slowly close the distance between them, apprehensive and scowling. "Yeah, that's fucking it, alright? So quit interrogating me like some cop and looking like you're gonna kill me or something, it's getting creepy—"

One last step, and he's there. He falls into Misaki's back, hesitantly wraps his arms around his middle, and presses his face into his neck.

"S-Saruhiko?"

"Idiot," he breathes onto Misaki's neck. "You are an _idiot."_

 

_v._

Traffic is terrible on Christmas Eve, Saruhiko figures out.

Their car isn't even moving anymore; it's stuck between the car in front and the car in back. It looks as if they'll be here awhile, so Saruhiko loosens his grip on the steering wheel and puts the car in park.

"Aw, c'mon!" Misaki lets out a moan from the passenger seat, "People have places to be, y'know!"

They're in this traffic jam _because _so many people have places to be, Saruhiko wants to say, but why even bother. He just clicks his tongue and turns his gaze to the window. Snow flurries about outside, pelting the windshield and clinging to the glass.__

"Man, this fucking sucks," says Misaki, arms crossed over his chest and a sulking expression on his face. "At this rate, we'll get home by next morning."

"This is your fault, you know," Saruhiko points out. "You're the one who wanted to go out and get Christmas cake."

"You just can't celebrate without it, okay?" Frustrated, Misaki shakes his head. "But then again, now we might not even have time to celebrate at all. Fucking traffic."

"Hm." Saruhiko is silent for a moment, thinking. "Your present," he says finally. "I never got around to taking it out of the car, so it's still in the glove box. You can open it if you want."

"Really? But I don't have yours."

Saruhiko waves him off, "Don't worry about it. Mine's small, anyway."

"Awesome!" After opening the glove box, Misaki withdraws a slightly crushed, nicely wrapped (but that was only because the store cashier wrapped it, not him) present. Misaki brightens, "You're the best, Saruhiko!"

His smile falls, however, once he opens it, and then he's looking at Saruhiko like he's demon spawn rather than "the best."

"Saruhiko . . . What is _this?"_

"It's a hat," he says, smirking, but it honestly feels more like a smile these days. "Is that not obvious?"

Misaki gapes at the bundle of cloth on his lap. The hat's tree green, with scarlet sparkles covering every last inch of it, and adorned with a red pom-pom on top. And when he shakes it, it jingles—apparently there's bells sewed into the lining.

Before Misaki can say anything else, Saruhiko reaches over and pulls the beanie off his head. "What are you waiting for, Mi-sa-ki? Put it on."

"What? No way!" Misaki shakes his head hard, "This thing's stupid!"

"Which is exactly why it's perfect for you," he says. "Now, are you going to put it on or not?"

"Hell no!" Misaki huffs, stubbornly.

"Tch."

Then, unbuckling his seat belt (it wasn't like he needed it anyway—the traffic hadn't budged), he leans over, one hand pressed into the armrest to prop him up, the other reaching for the hat, to which Misaki moves farther away, protesting all the while.

But his hand on the armrest slips, and before he can even blink, he's falling.

He tumbles forward and, luckily, doesn't hit the gear shift and send the car rolling. What he does hit, though, is the passenger beside him. Saruhiko has nothing to stop his fall, and the space between them dissolves as he tips over and—

Somehow, between one moment in the next, they've ended up with their lips touching, and Saruhiko hasn't a clue how it happened.

They both stare at each other, eyes impossibly wide, hearts beating wildly. Misaki's lips are dry and chapped, Saruhiko thinks, and so so warm under his own.

Then, the situation sinks in, really sinks in, and Saruhiko's moving away faster than he's ever moved his entire life. He falls back into his own seat, mouth dry and lips tingling.

"Uh—"

"An accident," Saruhiko says, words rushed. "It was an accident."

"Oh—y-yeah. Of course. An accident."

Saruhiko turns back to the road, stiffly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Misaki sling on the Christmas hat, pull it over his eyes and nose—probably trying to hide his obvious blush.

It's pretty quiet after that.

(And later, as they share one more "accident" at the traffic light, then one more, and maybe even one more after that, they agree on one thing: what happens in the car  _stays_ in the car.)

**Author's Note:**

> Also: for the fifth part, if you're wondering or anything, when people in Japan celebrate Christmas, they tend to celebrate more on Christmas Eve (to them it's a very romantic time of year, like V-Day) and everyone eats 'Christmas Cake', which is basically a kind of sponge cake. I tried to keep it as close to how they'd celebrate in Japan as possible, but I actually don't know much about Japanese culture and writing this showed me just how interesting it is.
> 
> But yeah, just to provide a little background info.


End file.
